


NSFF (Not Safe For Frypan)

by IceBreeze



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternative Universe- Jurassic Park, Alternative Unniverse - No Apocalypse, Gen, I think this probably qualifies as crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28029600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceBreeze/pseuds/IceBreeze
Summary: There are five idiots loose in a dinosaur park. Nobody knows how they got there. Nobody knows what they're going to do next.(Or: the au where Thomas, Minho, Newt and Gally work in a discount Jurassic park, and they drag their housemate Frypan to work there too).
Relationships: Frypan & Gally & Minho & Newt & Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14
Collections: Maze Runner Secret Santa 2020





	NSFF (Not Safe For Frypan)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays, Gill! Hope you have a good one!!

Frypan has always prided himself on being the functional adult amongst his friends. Like, sure, maybe he’s not the braincell (that badge of honour goes to Newt, who has as much common sense as he is a little shit, and Thomas, who seems to spend his time swinging between gotta go fast and genius with the kind of speed you’d expect from a very high cheetah with wings), and maybe he is still young enough that the mere fact he qualifies as an adult makes him want to squat in the snow and experience the euphoria of diarrhoea before he dies from hypothermia, and maybe he spends every waking moment in fear of the day someone calls him aa boomer, and-

Okay, so maybe he’s not an adult, but he _is_ functional.

He knows how to cook and cook well, which is a skill most of his friends are only passable enough to survive, and he has a job. A good job, in a not at all shady restaurant, where he didn’t have to sign confidentiality clauses and live his life like he’s a secret government agent. Instead he lived like he was a person trying to do their best in a world that’s not necessarily the kindest, ignoring the way his friends crawl around like they’re super secret ninja warriors.

He’s functional, and he has a non-shady job, and he has basic life skills, which therefore makes him the best. He quite likes being the best, because it means that he gets bragging rights as he has to gentle bully his housemates into taking care of themselves.

So yes. Frypan is more or less an adulting expert, except for one teensy little problem. A bump in the road of sorts, except the road is on fire and the car is on fire and the bump is moving and oh my gods it has teeth and claws and the only way forward is into the gaping maw of the unknown. A bump in the road that feels like a mountain if mountains had arms and went out of their way to hit you over the head with a club whilst calling you stupid. A bump on the road except the road is a steaming pile of shit and your car is being driven by a stoner who critiques your every life choice until your anxiety has anxiety and you really just want them to crash already so this whole thing can be over with.

A bump in the road, except it feels like the end of the road and Frypan really wants nothing more from life than to crawl into bed and sleep until things all feel okay again. It’s not a good plan, or a healthy plan, or even a remotely workable plan, but it’s still a plan, and the only one he has at the moment. It is a plan which he had every intention of carrying out, if not for his housemates being decent friends who have enough of a braincell between them to bully him into self care.

Which is how we got here, with Minho flopped on Frypan’s back, making a nuisance of himself and ruining a perfectly good evenings plans of merging with the bed.

“Bro,” Minho said. _“Bro._ Come on, talk to me bro."

“I hate you,” Frypan mumbled.

“There’s my boy! I knew you were there somewhere.”

“Yes, he is. Now go away and leave me in peace.”

“No, the moment I leave you’ll go back to being sad.”

This was exactly what Frypan had planned, but the mere prospect of allowing Minho to be right about anything was unbearable, so he kept stubbornly silent. Unfortunately for him, Minho had never one to be discouraged by obstacles, whether those obstacles be a man in a mascot costume holding a baseball bat who kept singing bohemian rhapsody on their street in the middle of the night or a friend who does not want to do the talk.

And Minho has an advantage on his side: the power of plot convenience. Yes, my dear reader, because the author has a goal they need to reach, and Minho is the only bitch in this household who is willing to help them get there.

So Minho said, “What if I got you a job?”

Frypan scoffed. “It’s not that simple, Minho.”

“But what if it was? Would that cheer you up?”

“Yes, being employed again would make me feel a lot better about my life, but that’s irrelevant because it’s not going to happen-”

But Minho was already out of the room, phone in hand as he got to doing just that.

And now we learn the true form of this story: a group chat.

> **A braincell???? In our super secret groupchat? Less likely than you think!**
> 
> **Minhoe:** yo who da boss
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** i da boss.
> 
> **Hewwo, it’s me, I was wondewing if aftew aww these yeaws you’d wike to newt:** it’s true, he’s the boss
> 
> **Hewwo, it’s me, I was wondewing if aftew aww these yeaws you’d wike to newt:** who the fuck changed my nickname.
> 
> **I may be trash but at least I’m recyclable:** it wasn’t me.
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** it was Gally.
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** it’s always Gally.
> 
> **I may be trash but at least I’m recyclable:** fuck you Thomas.
> 
> **I may be trash but at least I’m recyclable:** I will unionise, don’t think I won’t.
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** u can’t unionise if you’re dead.
> 
> **Hewwo, it’s me, I was wondewing if aftew aww these yeaws you’d wike to newt:** Better start running :)))) 
> 
> **Minhoe:** F
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** F
> 
> **Minhoe:** ok now that Newt is murdering Gally, I have a question.
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** shoot.
> 
> **Minhoe:** Janson really likes you, right?
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** unfortunately
> 
> **Minhoe:** And you’re technically high up in the food chain?
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** if you want me to help you do something illegal all you need to do is ask
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** you know I’m always down to do crime
> 
> **Minhoe:** asdfsfd
> 
> **Minhoe** : ok its nothing illegal this time, but if you give me a bit I’m sure I can come up with something
> 
> **Minhoe:** I wanna get frypan a job here
> 
> **Minhoe:** with nepotism
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** consider it done
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** ur explaining to frypan about the dinosaurs tho
> 
> **Minhoe:** I can deal with that
> 
> **Minhoe:** at the very least he won’t punch me like Gally did (may he rest in peace)
> 
> **I may be trash but at least I’m recyclable:** Stop saying I’m dead
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** sometimes I can still hear his voice
> 
> **I may be trash but at least I’m recyclable** : I’M NOT DEAD!
> 
> **Hewwo, its me, I was wondewing if aftew aww these yeaws you’d wike to Newt:** *yet

When Frypan finally worked up enough willpower to give his body sustenance, the house was quiet. Minho tended to go to bed early because he liked to go to the gym before work, like some kind of jock, and the other three tended to have longer shifts. It was rare for all five of them to be in the house at the same time, and sometimes weeks could go by without Frypan seeing any of his housemates, the only reason he knew they were still alive being the house group chat.

(The worst was, by far, Thomas, who Frypan was half convinced was some kind of cryptid. He lived like he was Sonic the Hedgehog on weed, and it was the subject of many bets as to whether he actually slept.

Frypan’s money is on no, he does not, because if life has taught him anything its that you don’t bet against Newt).

All in all, for all that Frypan lives with four other people, its very rare for him to actually see them. Which is why he nearly has a heart attack when he turns on the kitchen light to find Thomas sitting there, eating a jar of pickled onions in the dark.

“Oh,” Thomas said. “Hewwo.”

“Why are you sitting here with the lights off?”

Thomas shrugged. And then, “Oh right, you start work tomorrow, by the way. Your shift is at the same time as Newt so he will show you where to go.”

Um.

What???

“What???”

Thomas blinked. Frypan blinked right back.

Thomas blinked again. Frypan blinked right back.

The author blinked too, in solidarity.

“You start work tomorrow,” Thomas said, again, speaking slower this time. “Newt will show you where to go.”

“What work?”

“Did Minho not tell you that he asked me to get you a job?”

“No?”

“Huh.” A quiet sigh. “That dumbass.” and then, “Well, surprise! You’ve got a job now!”

And now we pause, for dramatic effect.

Frypan doesn’t really know what to do, in this situation. He doesn’t even know what this situation is, really. He’s standing in the kitchen at 2am, his housemate eating [food] from the jar, and apparently his unemployment has been solved with just a snap of a hand. It’s the kind of situation where Frypan feels like he’s in the middle of a soap opera or a novel or a screenplay left to gather dust because it was too unfeasible.

Or maybe it’s something sillier.

Maybe it’s just a bunch of words typed onto a blank page by a person who is trying to make a story by pilferring the characters of someone else’s story and slapping them into a hastily crafted world. Maybe his life isn’t his own but a fascimile created by someone else. Maybe this was not a situation, but a narrative device being used to further the plot. Maybe the next sentence will be the last, and the reader will be left with only this image of two characters standing in their kitchen over an open jar of pickled onions and the feelings of discomfort that come from an incomplete story.

Or maybe not. Maybe it's just Frypan and Thomas, each processing this situation and making of it what they will. Maybe it's just Frypan shrugging, and saying, “Fuck it, I guess I'm no longer unemployed.”

Maybe its Frypan getting a job, and Thomas getting a second fork so they can share the pickled onions.

True to Thomas’s word, Newt wrangles Frypan out of bed at 10am and gives him half an hour to get ready.

“Come on,” Newt said, “I haven’t been late a day in my life and I don’t intend to start now. Minho would never let me hear the end of it, and then I would be legally obliged to murder him.”

Frypan, who was a little preoccupied with trying to find his socks, simply grunted an acknowledgement. It’s not like it was anything new; Newt threatens to murder someone every other day. Thomas claims that Newt has in fact killed someone, but this is the same person who was in university when he learnt that santa claus wasn’t real.

(Nobody ever knows, with Thomas. Nobody ever knows, and that means the potential blood on Newt’s hands is something people try not to think too hard about).

Still, Frypan is out of the house within the time limit set for him, and Minho does not turn up in a dumpster somewhere, so all’s well that ends well.

And then they get to the workplace, and.

Well.

Frypan doesn’t really know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

Newt opened his arms, grinning with all the dramatic flourish of someone who had just won another bet.

“Welcome,” he said, “to Jurassic park.”

It was not, actually, Jurassic park, if only because it was not- an would never be- open to the public. It was still a safari filled with dinosaurs, who were apparently real and alive and being tended to by Frypan’s housemates, because life made no fucking sense and Frypan has never been loved by God.

“So you are telling me,” Frypan said, slowly, “that this whole place is the pet project of some billionaire ex-army man?”

“Yes.”

“And that the only employees are the five of us?”

“Yes.”

“And that we have to look after dinosaurs?”

“Yes, congratulations, you have displayed basic listening comprehension.”

“What the fuck.”

Newt slapped him on the shoulder, beaming. “Oh, you haven’t even seen the worst of it yet.”

“What the fuck, Newt.” And then, “Newt! You can’t just say that and then walk away! Hey, Newt, I’m fucking talking to you-“

But Newt did not stop, because he was actually three Sonic’s in a trenchcoat and the safari would wait for nobody.

It is, all in all, a weird start to a weird job.

> **A braincell???? In our super secret groupchat? Less likely than you think!**
> 
> **Frypan** has been added to the chat
> 
> **Frypan** changed his nickname to **Fwypan.**
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** eeeeeyyyyyyyy
> 
> **I may be trash but at least I’m recyclable:** eyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
> 
> **Minhoe:** eyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
> 
> **Hewwo, it’s me, I was wondewing if aftew aww these yeaws you’d wike to newt:** eyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
> 
> **Fwypan** : I hate all of you

Frypan’s job at the Maze (which is a weird fucking name for dinosaur park) is pretty simple, when it comes down to it. In fact, all of them pretty much have the same job; feed the dinosaurs, check they’re healthy and happy, and all that jazz. If it wasn’t for the fact that these are dinosaurs then it would be a very normal, very reasonable job.

As it is, Frypan would very like to lie down.

“Oh, stop being such a drama queen,” Gally said. “It’s not that bad.”

“Dinosaurs,” Frypan said. “Fucking _dinosaurs.”_

Newt silently pointed to rule four on the board: _Do not fuck the dinosaurs. They can’t consent._

“Why is that even a rule?!”

“There was an incident,” Newt said. No, he did not elaborate. Yes, it was terrifying.

Maybe Frypan needs to find a new place to live.

“Don’t worry so much,” Gally said. “Since you’re new, you’ll be sticking with me or Newt.”

“Yeah. Minho handles the special cases and Tommy is a special case, so it’ll be dangerous for you to go to them.”

“Special case?” Frypan asked.

“Oh, you know.”

Frypan did not know, and he would continue to not know for quite a long time.

It is decided, through the very scientific method of rock-paper-scissors, that Frypan will stick with Gally during his first day. Perhaps because he’s feeling merciful, he starts with the Brachiosaurus pen first, which is fortunate because Frypan nearly faints just from that. 

“Well, good luck I guess,” Gally said, “because it doesn’t really get better from here.”

He’s right, though Frypan wishes that he were left. Because the thing is, dinosaurs are huge. They’re big and they have so many teeth and its like looking death in the face and finding out it has never heard of mouthwash. It’s overwhelming on so many levels, even when they’re not creatures that are actively in the mood to kill you, so when you get to the carnivores?

You curl into the seat and try not to cry.

Fortunately, Gally is very used to this job, and he was thoughtful enough to break up the aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa with doses of normal by visiting the few places that had regular animals. This brought up questions of its own, like why did a dinosaur park have a snake exhibit, but it was nice to see some degree of normalcy.

Of course, then Gally drove too far, and everything went to shit.

The first warning that something was wrong was that everything went very, very quiet. Dinosaurs are, by nature, not quiet unless they are hunting, and even then most of them are big enough that they are visible from miles away. Even the regular animals reacted to the sight of the vehicle with loud excitement, most of which came from the prospect of food.

And yet, not only could they see nothing, there wasn’t so much as a fart to break the silence.

The second warning was the massive lake sitting two meters away from the car. There was only one part of this park that had a lake, and it was an area that was off limits to everyone except for Thomas. It was a red alert zone, one of the most dangerous places to go, which meant that if they could see said lake then they had done fucked up and were about to get fucked up.

The third warning was the honk. A loud, booming honk that shook the vehicle and sent their ears ringing. It was the kind of sound that signalled death coming to lead you to the other side; a sound that would put war sirens to shame. A sound that would make even a God piss themselves in fear.

It was the sound of oblivion.

Frypan jumped, eyes wide. Gally’s hands were shaking where they were clenched around the wheel.

“Fuck,” Gally whispered.

And then, there came another honk. And then another, and another, and another, and soon the air was filled with hundreds of honks.

And then, they approached. Demons, with beady little eyes and beaks that promised only pain, with their wings flapping and necks reared back. They surrounded the vehicles, hundreds of them all braying for blood, like a swarm, like a flood. Frypan scarcely dared to breathe, pressing himself against the seat as if doing so might protect him from the malice outside.

“Honk,” said one of the geese, the biggest one. “Honk,” and then it pulled out a gun. An actual, real life gun, held in its beak, and it was like the floodgates had been opened. All the geese reached into their tailfeathers and pulled out weapons of various forms, ranging from knives to metal bats to chainsaws, and they all stood there, armed. Watching. Waiting. Honking.

Frypan thought, I don’t want to die.

Gally thought, fuck.

The geese thought of murder and murder alone.

The head goose lifted its wing, in signal. The geese all stamped their feet. Gally closed his eyes. Frypan began to cry, silently.

And then, from somewhere behind them, Thomas called, “I’m back!”

And it was like a switch had been flipped. As one, the geese all turned their heads in his direction, weapons disappearing as if they’d never been there. Suddenly, rather than murder, their eyes held excitement. Thomas smiled at them as he approached, a basket full of bread on one arm and a bucket of meat on the other.

“Honk!” cried all the geese. “Honk!”

And then they swarmed to him, surrounding him with flapping wings and excited honks, like they were sweet uwu babies who hadn’t just been about to commit violence. Thomas knelt down, petting the feathers of those he could reach, talking to the geese in quiet tones, and two in the vehicle had been summarily forgotten.

Gally, who was not a fool, took the opportunity that had been given them and got the hell out of dodge.

(“Why are there geese in a safari?” Frypan asked, when they were safe.

"Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Geese are actually dinosaurs. The honkasaurus, as they're called. Dangerous little blighters."

"??????????"

"Yeah, we've all been there. Thomas is the only one they like, so he deals with their enclosure. Anyone else would lose a limb and maybe their life, so don't go near the lake."

Frypan thought this was a rule he could follow easily. He’s already got enough nightmares from this without repeating the experience).

> **A braincell???? In our super secret groupchat? Less likely than you think!**
> 
> **Fwypan:** if I ever see a goose again it’ll be too soon
> 
> **Hewwo, it’s me, I was wondewing if aftew aww these yeaws youd wike to newt:** mood
> 
> **Minhoe:** mood
> 
> **I may be trash but at least I’m recyclable:** mood
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** rude
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** they’re sweet summer children who have never done a thing wrong in their lives
> 
> **I may be trash but at least I’m recyclable:** you are literally the only person who they are like that for
> 
> **Gotta go fast:** must mean I’m the only person who matters :D

They go to the tyrannosaurus rex enclosure next, where there is only one resident. 

"Terry," Gally says, "who is permanently in the naughty corner."

The naughty corner, as it turns out, is a square pit dug into the ground, surrounded by a wooden fence. In the pit sits Terry, who is not what Frypan expected.

"Um," Frypan says,"Gally?"

"Yes?"

"That's a person in a dinosaur costume."

It wasn't even a good costume. It was the kind you might find on ebay for way more money than its worth, or on some kind of viral video buried in the corners of the internet. They were swaying where they sat, fake arms hanging uselessly in front of them. After seeing very real dinosaurs, this was the kind of mood whiplash Frypan didn't know what to do with.

"Yeah, that's why she's in the naughty corner."

Gally pulled a bag of McDonalds food out from under the car seat, and dumped it into the pit. A human hand reached out of Terry's mouth and pulled it, bag and all, inside the costume.

"Enjoy," said Gally.

"Rawr," said Terry, in the most deadpan voice Frypan has ever heard.

Frypan wondered if it was too late to turn in his resignation.

> **A braincell???? In our super secret groupchat? Less likely than you think!**
> 
> **Fwypan** : what the fuck is up with Terry
> 
> **Minhoe:** ah, good ol' Terry. 
> 
> **I may be trash but at least I’m recyclable:** the real hero of this park, doing the work none of us wanted to do.
> 
> **Hewwo, it’s me, I was wondewing if aftew aww these yeaws you’d wike to newt:** may she rest in peace
> 
> **Fwypan** : it's an abomination. she's participating in an abomination.
> 
> **Gotta go fast** : rude, that's my sister you're talking about.
> 
> **Fwypan** : wait you have a sister?
> 
> **Fwypan** : your sister sits in a pit in a dinosaur costume????
> 
> **Fwypan:** Thomas what the fuck?????
> 
> **Fwypan:** THOMAS YOU CAN'T JUST DROP SOMETHING LIKE THAT AND GO
> 
> **Minhoe:** whose gonna tell Fry about wckd and watch what little faith he has left in humanity crumble?
> 
> **Fwypan** : it gets worse?????
> 
> **Hewwo, it's me, i was wondewing if aftew aww these yeaws you'd wike to newt:** oh honey, you ain't seen nothing yet.

After lunch (which was thankfully not McDonalds, because Frypan wasn't sure he could handle it after the Terry thing), Frypan stays with Newt in the office, dealing with the paperwork side of things. It’s a welcome break from the near adrenaline rush of dealing with dangerous creatures of varying sizes and shapes. Newt peppers things with a lot of trash talk about their boss, which is always fun because Newt’s trash talk is truly incredible.

It’s peaceful, for a few hours, and everyone knows that peace doesn’t last for long when you’re a fictional character. Which is why it isn’t a surprise when Gally sticks his head through the door and says, “Hey, we need the first aid kit.”

Newt, with the long suffering air of a wizened wizard who has been wrangling hobbits for twelve years, sighed. “What happened this time?”

“Minho lost an arm wrestling contest with a snake.”

“Of fucking course. That’s fifth time this bloody month.”

Frypan, who was starting to wonder if he was the only normal person here, said, “But snakes don’t have arms.”

“Doesn’t mean they can’t arm wrestle.”

This didn’t make any sense, and it would continue to not make any sense for the rest of time, because at that moment Thomas dragged Minho into the room (quite literally dragged; the man was on the ground like a sack of potatoes) and said, “Can we get an F for the Minho man?”

Everyone F-ed, except for Newt, who said, “Even dead he is unworthy of my respect.”

This was fair. Minho is many things but he is not respectable.

Frypan’s first day at work finishes up with a funeral. It is a very small funeral, attended only by the five of them and the snake that killed Minho. Gally, who had worked in a funeral home for like three months and thereby could legally officiate such events, said a few moving words, which amounted to, “Rest in fucking pieces Minho, you absolute himbo.”

Minho, who was the only person crying, wiped at his eyes. “Thanks, bro.”

“You’re welcome, bro.”

“Do we really need to do this?” Frypan asked. “Minho is still alive.”

“Yeah, but how many chances to you get to attend your own funeral?” Minho said, at the same time Newt said, “I can correct that quite easily.”

The room went quiet. Minho edged closer to Thomas, nervously. Newt smiled.

Thomas said, “If Minho dies for real, can we take the snake home instead?”

Minho edged closer to Gally, his faith in humanity wavering.

“I’m for that,” Gally said, “The snake is much cooler, anyway.”

Minho looked at Frypan, his one final hope. Frypan shrugged. “At least the snake will actually do its damn dishes.”

And so Minho died once more, this time from emotional pain. He did not get a second funeral, and instead everybody left him lying on the ground, easy come, easy go.

And so, Frypan’s first day of work ended as it started: the words start coming and they don’t stop coming, fed to the rules and you hit the ground running, didn’t make sense not to live for fun, brain gets smart but your head gets dumb. So much to do, so much to see, so what’s wrong with using nepotism?

You’ll never know if you don’t go (go!) You’ll never shine if you don’t glow.

Hey now, you’re a dinosaur, get your rawr on, go play. Hey now, you’re a dinosaur, get your claws out, get fed.

And all that is written ends

Only dinosaurs go OwO.


End file.
